


Hold the Lift

by doctornerdington



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Elevator Sex, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, PWP, Trapped In Elevator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 02:49:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4689590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctornerdington/pseuds/doctornerdington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shameless elevator sex PWP. Few to no redeeming qualities. Je ne regrette rien.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold the Lift

"Hold the lift!" An arm shot through the closing door, and John punched at the Open button. A slender shoulder quickly followed, and then the man himself stood panting beside John in the tiny lift: tall, dark-haired, beautiful.

The man barely glanced at John before turning his attention to his phone, which chimed continually. He typed at speed, single-handed. The other ruffled through his unruly mop of curls.Suddenly, there was shouting and scuffling just outside lift, and an arm reached in, swiping at the man in a last-ditch effort to grab him through the already-closing door. John looked on in paralyzed shock as the man batted the reaching hands away. And then the doors swept closed, and they were alone. Muffled curses and what sounded like a kick came through the closed door before the elderly lift lurched and wheezed into motion. The man appeared unperturbed.

John waited a moment, shifting his cane, but the man seemed to pay no attention to his surroundings, engrossed in his mobile. John examined him, curiously.

"Floor?" John finally asked, deciding to play along with the apparent fiction that this kind of thing happened all the time. Oh yes, this was entirely usual.  

The man finally raised his head, his vivid eyes pinning John in a way that made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. “Hmmmm?” he asked absently, his eyes raking down John’s body, and then back up.

"I’m going to 8.  Is that your floor?" John repeated patiently. He tried to tell himself that this strange man was having no effect on him, but those eyes were now on his mouth, his lips, and John would be damned if his body wasn’t taking notice.

The man smiled: an abrupt flash of teeth. “Not 8, no,” he said.  He leaned casually over, close enough to brush against John’s side. John felt a breath on the side of his face as he moved past. Then the man jammed down on the emergency stop button, stopping the lift between floors with screech and a hideous jolt.

"What the bloody hell—" John started, grabbing for the handrail as his dodgy leg almost failed him, but the man interrupted him, brandishing his mobile.

"I assure you, until the Met arrives, this lift is the safest place in the building to be."  The man’s eerie gaze again swept over John, this time from the top of his grey-blond head to the tip of his cane.  "And with an Army doctor, no less. Combat-trained, I assume? I could have done worse."

John gaped at him.  “What— how did you—?”

"Now, is that your medical bag? Of course it is.” His eyes were both amused and intense. “How fortunate. We may have need of it soon."

John blinked. He opened his mouth, and then shut it again. He had no idea what to say. The appropriate response to being trapped in a lift with a madman was considerably different than the response hovering on the tip of his tongue, which was more along the lines of a terrible pick-up line. How could such an insufferable, annoying man be so compelling?

Instead of speaking, he took the safer route, and looked the man over more carefully. This time, he looked past his instant attraction, past the posh coat and artfully tousled curls to at least make an attempt at professional detachment. He noticed, then, what he’d missed in the excitement of the arrival: scraped knuckles trickled fresh blood down his right hand, his left trouser leg was gashed, and his eyes glittered with adrenaline.

Without thinking, John leaned his cane against the wall of the lift and reached out to grab the injured hand, turning it over to examine the damage as his other hand cradled it gently, palpating bones and knuckles.

The man before him hissed and winced, but didn’t pull away.

“Well, you’ve been lucky. It’s not broken, Mr…?”

“Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. And I _know_ it’s not broken; I’ve seen worse. It’s fine.” Still, he didn’t pull his hand away; seemed to content to leave it cupped safely in John’s own steady grip.

“John Watson. I won't shake your hand, given the circumstances. Are you alright? How did this happen?” John couldn’t tear his eyes away from Sherlock Holmes’ piercing stare.

“Dull.” Sherlock waved his other hand in the air, indicating some details too inconsequential to relate.

John’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not dull to me. What’s going on, Mr. Holmes?”

“Sherlock, please. It’s… it’s nothing. A bit of light espionage, petty theft, a slight, er, attempted murder upon my person. Nothing to be concerned about,” he finished quickly.

John’s grasp tightened on his wrist, his eyes widening fractionally.

“Espionage? Jesus bloody christ, that’s all I need.” He checked his watch. He was running more than a little late already.

Sherlock smirked. “Oh, give over. Look at you! You’re practically begging for some excitement to liven things up; that much is obvious. How long is it since you’ve come back from service – was it Iraq? Or no, Afghanistan. I’d say… five months since you’ve seen combat? Maximum six. You’re stultifying. Not built for civilian life. God! It must be hell. Right off the plane and into physio for that unfortunate, nagging injury, and a cheap bedsit in, let’s see…” he stepped back slightly, his eyes zeroing in on invisible traces that apparently spelled out John’s life in perfect detail on his body. John swallowed. Those eyes left trails of fire on his flesh, and he broke out in a light sweat. He shrugged uncomfortably in his jacket. “Balham, is it?” Sherlock continued. “And now, out looking for work in your only suit – an awful one, at that. Here for an interview, but running late. Tsk tsk. Doesn’t look good. The surgery manager won’t like it. Luckily for you, you don’t really care.”

For a second time in as many minutes, John was speechless, gaping. “That’s…” He shook his head. Anger warred with astonishment. “That’s brilliant.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say?”

“Piss off.”

John snorted. “I considered that, too.” He dragged his gaze back up from where they had settled on Sherlock’s remarkably plush lips. “But I thought being rude might… er, lower my chances.” He coloured slightly. John was an experienced man and not given to nerves, but then again, Sherlock Holmes was a very beautiful man. John resolved not to leave the lift without a phone number. You never knew unless you tried, he thought.

Across from him, Sherlock raised his eyebrows expectantly.

John hesitated. He had no idea how to appeal to this strange man.

Just then, Sherlock’s phone chimed stridently, breaking the spell.

“Wonderful. The cavalry responds.” Sherlock glared at the text. “Oh, _what_?”  Heaving a sigh and raising his eyes to heaven, he punched in a number and held the phone to his ear with his good hand.

“Ninety minutes is too long,” he began without preamble. “It is not possible to –” He was apparently cut off by the person on the line. John leaned back against the wall of the stationary lift to take in the show. No use pretending not to eavesdrop in such a tiny space. “He’ll have burned the evidence by then. The Partington file is… I don’t care whose division it is, I can’t –” He was cut off again, shaking his head in violent disagreement. “Listen, I’m in a lift and my signal’s cutting out. I need you to — no! No!” He gnashed his teeth in frustration.

“Lestrade!” he bellowed at last, holding the phone to his mouth. “If you’re not here in an hour, I’m going after it myself, and if you ring my brother I will have your head.” He rung off in disgust and thrust the phone deep into his coat pocket. Dejected, he slumped against the far wall of the lift, looking for all the world like a disgruntled teenager.

John dialed back his astonished grin to a smile of polite inquiry, aiming, as one does in strange and unfamiliar circumstances, for an air of normalcy. This was the most interesting encounter he’d had since combat; in fact, since much longer than that. “You’re with the Met, then?” he asked, neutrally.

Sherlock snorted. “They wish. I’m a consultant. They come to me when they’re in over their heads – which is to say, constantly. And if they don’t get their acts together, they’re going to lose some very important British intelligence to some very nasty turncoats, and no one will ever be the wiser.” He stood swiftly, and kicked the door in fury. “‘Not my division’,” he scoffed, collapsing against the wall once again.

Moments passed in silence. John watched the other man narrowly, considering. Sherlock was frowning thunderously at the floor of the lift.

The silence grew and stretched, became a thing itself alive, twisting and writhing in the air between them. John straightened, suddenly, nodding once to himself. It’s easy to gamble when you have nothing to lose. He cleared his throat.

Sherlock looked up.

John approached him, not breaking eye contact. In the close, stuffy space of the lift, he could smell Sherlock’s body: the cigarettes on his breath. The lavender in his shampoo. A whiff of clean perspiration. It made John salivate, made his fingers itch for want of touching. He hadn’t pulled in so long; and he wasn’t sure he’d ever been this immediately drawn to someone. Deliberately, he stepped into Sherlock’s space.

“We have – what did you say? – an hour until your backup arrives? That’s a long time to wait.” Unconsciously (he swore, swore, it was unconsciously), his tongue slid out; he licked his bottom lip.

Sherlock smiled, suddenly predatory, and licked his own lips. Retaliation. “It can be. But sometimes it’s not nearly long enough.”

John drew a shaky breath, and took the last step that brought him as close to Sherlock as he could be without actually touching him. “No? Hmm. I wonder. How can we possibly fill the time?”

“I’ve one or two ideas.” Their faces were just centimeters apart now; John’s eyes were locked on Sherlock’s perfectly bowed upper lip.

“Fuck it,” John thought. “Nothing ventured…” He leaned forward, slightly, and traced the outline of that bow with the tip of his tongue--

The world stopped. It was a cliché to even think it, but John could have sworn the earth stopped spinning, just for a second, at his first taste of Sherlock Holmes’s mouth. An incendiary chemical reaction rocketed through his body: Sherlock was the catalyst, and he was, in an instant, consumed in a raging fire of lust.

He pulled back with a gasp, as if he’d been burned. Across from him, Sherlock was panting, staring back at him with shocked, almost incredulous eyes.

John raised an eyebrow, but before he could speak, Sherlock was on him, licking and biting at his mouth, tonguing along the seam of his closed lips, pressing him back against the wall of the lift.

John groaned into Sherlock’s mouth and opened to him, not a question in his mind of what he would give this man, still all but a stranger, or of what he wanted from him. He slipped his hands up under Sherlock’s coat to grasp his hips and pull him closer, hold him tighter. Instantly, Sherlock reciprocated, winding clever fingers behind John’s back and twining his injured hand gingerly into John’s hair, gently tilting his head just so before attacking his mouth with renewed fury.

Under Sherlock’s ministrations, John’s head spun. From a late dash to interview for a wretched job he didn’t want, he’d fallen into an alternate reality in which one could step into a lift and end up snogging gorgeous crime-fighters. It must be a dream. His life could never be this perfect.

He barely realized he’d been muttering these thoughts aloud as Sherlock transferred his attention to John’s throat.

By way of answer, though, Sherlock straightened up and pressed himself into John’s side. John felt the hard outline of Sherlock’s desire. “Evidence points to reality. Now shut up,” Sherlock grunted, before bending down to mouth at John’s neck, sucking and biting up and under John’s jaw, and John tipped back to allow him greater access.

John chuckled, fighting to maintain some semblance of composure. “Yes, well,” he started shakily as Sherlock mouthed up over his chin. “I suppose if this were a dream, you wouldn’t be so rude.” And then he hissed, and bucked up, as Sherlock bit down, hard, on his earlobe. He yanked his head away, and pushed Sherlock, hard, in the centre of his chest. While Sherlock was an accomplished hand-to-hand combat, in his surprise he staggered back against the far wall. John pushed into him, keeping him slightly off balance, and yanked his (very expensive) shirt down past his clavicle, which he began to trace with his tongue.

“How do you know,” John asked, pausing in his attentions to the rapidly-reddening clavicle, “how do you know that I’m not attached to this Parkinson business, hmmm?” He ran a tongue up a pale and slender throat; Sherlock shuddered in response.

“Please,” he scoffed. “Your shoes alone--”

John bit down, just this side of too hard, on the meaty muscle connecting shoulder to neck. Sherlock barked a startled laugh.

John reached up and began to undo the straining buttons of Sherlock’s very expensive shirt. How many days at this new job he didn’t have and didn’t want would it take to earn enough to pay for a shirt like this, he wondered? He popped the first button, strained almost to the breaking point across Sherlock’s pectorals. At the resulting V of skin, he planted a filthy kiss: wet and hard, with a hint of teeth. Sherlock swore under his breath above him and tangled a hand in John’s hair, urging him to press harder, go lower. Inch by excruciating inch, John made his way down Sherlock’s chest.

Sweet as cream, he thought to himself, licking and laving every inch of newly-revealed skin until it glowed pink under his tongue.

“Wait! Wait,” Sherlock gasped suddenly.

John stilled immediately.

“No, don’t stop. Just… There’s not much space, but…” Sherlock shrugged out of his coat, and threw it down with a flourish on the floor of the lift; cocked his head at John. “Our boudoir,” Sherlock exclaimed, smiling slyly.

John just grinned. He dropped to kneel on the coat in front of Sherlock, and skimmed his mouth, feather-light, over the taut bulge of Sherlock’s groin while he pulled Sherlock’s shirt out of his trousers and quickly unfastened the last buttons.

And then, unable to resist, he nosed in, damned if he would lose this chance, and nuzzled at the growing hardness under the expensive wool weave. He was gratified by a growl from above as he pressed his face in harder, breathing in the musk of him, reveling in the slight damp.

John shuddered. It absolutely felt like he was losing his mind. If he didn’t get this man’s cock out and in his mouth in the next 15 seconds, he couldn’t be held accountable for the consequences.

Luckily, it didn’t come to that. Sherlock cursed; tore at his clothes and shimmied out of trousers and pants all on his own, grasping John’s head gently and guiding himself forwards towards his mouth. Hopeful, but not demanding. John appreciated his frankly surprising solicitude, but he had no time for manners, not now. He swallowed down Sherlock’s long, delicate cock in an instant, barely registering the lovely flush or impressive angle of erection.

Sherlock groaned deeply and carded his hands through John’s hair.

John hummed, working his mouth over his cock with single-minded focus, pulling up and licking wetly over the head, sliding down along the deliciously veined underside, then plunging the whole thing into his mouth and sucking deeply, rhythmically, while Sherlock writhed against him. He was in no hurry to get Sherlock off, but he couldn’t control his need to devour him, to draw him into himself and keep him there awhile. Later, he would be shocked at himself, but now he was too far gone to feel anything other than overwhelming lust.

He pulled off, to Sherlock’s sigh of dismay, and nosed down, licking filthy trails along the crease of stomach and thigh. Sherlock’s sigh turned to gasps, and he spread his legs further, tilting his hips forward to offer himself.

He was completely unselfconscious in his nakedness—and thank Christ for that, John thought. He wanted nothing more than to spend the next decade or two of his life staring at that body.

John smiled with satisfaction. Sherlock seemed to want this—wanted him—so much. It was inexplicable, but he was more than happy to comply. With one hand, he cupped Sherlock’s testicles, tugging gently and rolling them. With the other, he grasped Sherlock’s erection, swabbing his thumb over the tip where a wet bead of precome had formed. He raised his hand to his mouth and licked it clean.

“Fuck, John,” Sherlock gasped, his eyes wide. A fine tremor ran through his body.

Once more, John took Sherlock into his mouth, swallowing him down to the hilt, deliberately relaxing and willing himself to calm as he felt the tip nudge up against the back of his throat. His eyes watered but he didn’t stop, bobbing up and down, faster and harder, now a slight scrape of teeth, now judicious suction. In no time at all, Sherlock was straining and thrusting towards him, grabbing his head in warning.

“John! Fuck! Yes, John, I’m going to come. I’m going to…”

John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hips, held himself determinedly in place, sucking hard. And then Sherlock tensed, his body going rigid and pulse after pulse of bitter salt filling John’s mouth while Sherlock grunted and shook and groaned beneath him.

Finally, Sherlock collapsed back against the wall of the lift and slid to the ground. They locked eyes. John audibly swallowed.   

Sherlock swore weakly under his breath, his spent cock twitching optimistically.

John licked his lips. “You are _delicious_.”

Sherlock huffed out a chuckle. “Give me 3 minutes to recover from that frankly _spectacular_ orgasm, and I’ll return the favour.”

“Nope,” John said. “Can’t wait.” He surged forward and kissed Sherlock, open-mouthed and messy, smearing saliva and semen between them as he groaned desperately into his mouth.

Sherlock reached blindly for his coat pocket, somewhere on the floor of the lift. He pressed something into John’s hand. A lubricated condom. John gaped. “Who are you, the gay James Bond?”

“Who?”

At that, John paused. “Really?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Do you want to tutor me in obscure pop culture references, or do you want to fuck me?” he asked, but even while he spoke his nimble fingers were making short work of John’s trouser fastenings.

John lunged for him, capturing his mouth in a bruising kiss.

At the same time, Sherlock was pulling John’s trousers and pants down over his hips, and then his hands were on him. He pulled back slightly to look down at the cock in his hands, murmuring appreciatively, then began to stroke John with teasing gentleness.

John very nearly whined. His cock was rigid, aching and harder than he could ever remember it being. Sparks began to crackle at the edges of his vision and he felt the tide of pleasure coming for him.

“Sherlock stop,” he said. “Stop right now, or this will be over.”

Sherlock pulled away instantly. “No, no!” he said, and it sounded like an order. “No. I need you inside me. I need you to fuck me. I like to be fucked after I come.”

John sucked in a breath. “Yeah, saying that kind of thing really doesn’t help,” he gasped, fighting back the tide.

He decided to focus on mechanics in order to distract himself: first, open condom. Find notch in foil packet, open vigilantly; don’t use teeth. Careful not to tear. Check direction of roll. He cared so little about anything except burying himself inside of Sherlock’s body, it was almost physically painful to force himself through the familiar procedure.

He took a deep, steadying breath as he rolled the condom on. _Don’t come yet. Not yet_ , he told himself furiously. He gave his slick cock a quick squeeze. Sherlock let out a shuddering breath and raised his legs to John’s shoulders, spreading himself open and tilting his hips up at a welcoming angle.

“Christ,” John said. “Are you real?” He grabbed Sherlock’s index finger and sucked it into his mouth, wetting it thoroughly. Sherlock closed his eyes. Incredibly, his cock began to fill, fattening against his thigh.

“Let’s see you, you gorgeous thing. Get yourself ready for me.”

Sherlock nodded and reached down behind himself, slipping a fingertip inside, huffing slightly as he twisted onto it, adding a second and scissoring impatiently. He hissed at the burn.

“Easy,” John murmured into his ear. “Easy. Slow and steady.” He reached for Sherlock’s hand and guided it on a slower but still relentless path.

“That’s right,” he murmured, as Sherlock relaxed. Breathing hard against Sherlock’s neck, he licked his own finger and pressed it into Sherlock alongside his own two fingers.

Sherlock’s head thunked back against the wall behind him. He was breathing shallowly.

“I’m ready,” he said unsteadily. “Now. Fuck me now.”

John thrust in with his finger a few more times, satisfying himself that Sherlock was relaxed and ready.

Then he knelt up, shifting Sherlock’s legs on his shoulders. He lined himself up against Sherlock’s hole.

“Alright?” he asked breathlessly.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and pushed himself down onto John’s cock, taking it in in one slow, steady thrust.

“Christ!” John gasped. “You pushy bugger.” Sherlock was tight and hot and perfect around him. He didn’t think he’d ever felt anything as perfect.

Sherlock bit his lip and ground his hips down, seeking deeper penetration. “John!” he moaned, a plaintive note superseding his previous cheek.

Suddenly John snapped his hips forward, thrusting hard and fast.

“Ahh!” Sherlock’s gasp was almost a wail. “Yes! Again.”

John obliged. With each thrust, pleasure sparked up his spine, diffusing out through his body. He put his all into it, fucking Sherlock fast and hard. The more Sherlock reacted, the more energetically John moved.

They skidded incrementally across the floor of the lift; Sherlock would have carpet burn in inconvenient places tomorrow, but for now, even the burn was blissful.

John growled into Sherlock’s mouth. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” The sparks built, kindled, grew, roared under his skin.

And then Sherlock reached back and braced himself against the wall of the lift, gaining the leverage to thrust back against John, taking him deeper, spurring him on.

Flames enveloped John. He roared, pounding into Sherlock again and again. Sherlock was moaning continuously now, pushing back against him.

“Touch yourself for me,” John bit out. “Oh god, yes. That’s it.”

Sherlock’s hand was a blur on his cock as John continued to pound into him, lifting him bodily off the ground with each energetic thrust.

“Luckily, I’m— ah! I’m ambidextrous,” Sherlock panted. His eyes were closed in bliss.

“Of course you are,” John grunted.

“Ah! Christ! Just like that…”

And then he was coming, spurting deep inside Sherlock, grinding his hips into him, vision whiting out as the fire blazed through him.

Beneath him, Sherlock shook and pulsed around him as he came for the second time, ejaculating a thin rope of come and quivering around John’s cock.

John slumped down against him, panting hard. When he came to himself again, he was nestled against Sherlock’s unruly curls.

Sherlock was still for a few minutes, trailing a finger gently up and down John’s flank.

Then, suddenly, he tensed.

“Time?”

“51 minutes,” John said, glancing at his watch and still breathing hard. He rose up on one elbow to pull off the condom. Shrugging, he tossed it in the corner of the lift.

“Not bad.” Sherlock grinned. “Not bad at all.”

John licked his lips. He still tasted of Sherlock.

They stood and pulled on their clothes, eyes on each other the whole time. John was surprised at the complete lack of awkwardness he felt. When they were both presentable again—if somewhat disheveled—Sherlock released the emergency button. The lift came to life and resumed its ascent of the shaft.

“Sod the Met,” Sherlock said, eyes sparkling. “Fancy seeing a bit more action?”

John pressed him up against the wall for a last, hard, awed kiss. “Oh god, yes.”

“Good.” The door slid open. “Let’s go.”

John followed Sherlock out of the lift, leaving it empty – save for a cane, left leaning against the lift wall.


End file.
